“Did you tell him already?” John hissed furiously at Sir Galvin.
“How else was I to explain my presence?” Sir Galvin defended himself. “I was sure you would get here ahead of me, given your head start, so I rushed in, only to discover no one had seen hide nor hair of you. It was very awkward—especially considering my nearly nonexistent Greek. All I could do was stammer ‘ola kala, o baron exei epitichi’ or something like that.” (Everything’s good, the baron was successful.) While Sir Galvin’s French remained heavily accented by his native Scottish burr, his Greek was so badly mispronounced that John wondered how anyone could understand it at all; had he been in a better mood he would have laughed.
Meanwhile they both dismounted, tied up their horses, and proceeded into the church to join the women, children, and elderly streaming from various houses to the church for Mass. The men were evidently in the fields.
Father Andronikos’ wife was in the first row on the women’s side of the church, and Eirini was beside her. Eirini turned to see who had entered, and her face lit up into a smile before she covered her mouth with her hand and then hastened to face the screens. After that she dutifully kept her eyes ahead, crossing herself, kneeling, and giving the responses like a good priest’s daughter.
John, however, couldn’t keep his attention on the Mass. He looked over at Eirini so often that Sir Galvin stomped on his foot and hissed at him to “stop making a scene.” John concentrated on the Mass for at least thirty seconds after that, but then he looked over again and this time met Eirini’s eyes. She blushed sharply as she turned back to the front, only to look over her shoulder at him again almost at once.
Now he was sure! She was as excited to see him as he to see her.
When the Mass concluded, John crossed the aisle to bow before Eirini and her mother. He tried to direct his words to the elder woman, but he simply couldn’t keep his eyes off Eirini. She stood demurely with her eyes down—except when she snuck little glances at him, her cheeks so infused with blood that they were the color of roses.
Father Andronikos came up behind John and Sir Galvin. Clapping his hands together, he suggested, “Come! Let us celebrate together.”
“Yes, please. I so wanted to be the one to bring you the news—but Sir Galvin, I understand, beat me here.”
“No matter, Janis,” Father Andronikos assured him. “He couldn’t tell me any details. I heard from Father Neophytos, however, that you accompanied your father to most of the negotiations.” Father Andronikos sounded impressed, and John’s chest swelled with pride because Eirini’s eyes grew wide with wonder.
“Just as his squire,” John hastened to explain, anxious not to seem like a braggart.
“Of course; what else at your age?” Father Andronikos remarked genially. “But very few young men have such an opportunity to be a witness to history. It must have been very exciting. You must tell us all about it!” He herded his guests, wife, and daughter toward his modest house, the Franks leading their horses, and Barry wagging his tail in anticipation of food.
Once inside, however, the women disappeared into the kitchen, and John could hardly discontinue his narrative and insist on waiting for Eirini. Fortunately, he hadn’t got all that far in the story before Eirini emerged with a tray of refreshments. As she came to offer them to him, she briefly stood between her father and John, her back to her father, and she risked smiling straight at him. John felt as if his bones were melting, but he didn’t dare say a word. He took a cup with a murmured “Thank you,” and Eirini continued to Sir Galvin. Unfortunately, she returned to the kitchen as soon as the men all had something to drink, but John had to continue his narrative.
Eirini next returned with nuts and raisins, and after a few more minutes, she emerged to set the table. John sat a little straighter and spoke as loudly as he could without (he thought) being too obvious. Eirini studiously focused on the table, but she was so slow about her duties that her mother called out from the kitchen, asking what was keeping her. She finished in a hurry and darted back to the kitchen, only to re-emerge a few minutes later with two steaming platters of food. Her mother came after her, and Father Andronikos invited his guests to the table. He asked them all to join hands while he blessed the food, then with a smile gestured for them to sit. As he served, he launched into a lengthy speech about how delighted he was about the outcome of the negotiations.
“There’s only one thing that disturbs me,” Father Andronikos concluded, his tone taking on a serious note, in contrast to the optimistic tone that had prevailed up until now.
“Yes?” John asked attentively.
“Brother Zotikos,” Father Andronikos answered, “has refused to accept the agreement.”
“But his abbot,” John started, “he—I mean—Brother Zotikos can’t disobey . . . ”
Father Andronikos took a deep breath and shook his head. “He should not—but, if what I have heard is right, he got very angry and accused the abbot and, indeed, the Patriarch of taking Frankish bribes. He said that they might be “corruptible,” but he was not. He stormed out and has not been seen since. There are rumors. . . .”
“Yes?” John pressed him.
“He was very close to some notorious smugglers—not to say pirates. Particularly a man who goes by the name of Kanakes. It was his boat that brought Brother Zotikos to that first rendezvous with your father in Coral Bay.”
John remembered that day vividly, and the way his father had said they all looked like a “bunch of pirates.”
“Zotikos has vowed to continue the fight,” Father Andronikos admitted with a sigh.
“Then this isn’t peace?” John asked, confused.
“No, no. It’s not as bad as that. The Patriarch has sanctioned this agreement and ordered the people to respect it. The vast majority of people want peace and truly praise Our Lord and Savior for this agreement. Things will calm down. I just wanted to warn you that Brother Zotikos may yet try to cause trouble. Now, if you’re done, why don’t you let me take you to see the ruins I told you about during your last visit? That way we won’t be underfoot while the women clean up.”
John very much wanted to be with the women, but he had no choice but to assent. Dutifully he followed Father Andronikos to an overgrown site on the edge of the village where, among the weeds, capitals of marble pillars and fragments of mosaic were visible. “Cyprus was very important in the centuries before Christ,” Father Andronikos explained as Barry sniffed about, excited by a thousand scents. “There were powerful kings who ruled from Salamis and Paphos.” John listened politely as Father Andronikos gave him a history lesson, but he heard with only half an ear; his mind was focused on how he could find time alone with Eirini.
By the time they returned it was late afternoon, and Father Andronikos excused himself to prepare Mass, heading straight for his little church. John’s hope of a moment with Eirini were dashed, however, by the sight of Sir Galvin blocking the doorway. “It’s time to head back for Limassol,” he announced with a meaningful look; “otherwise we won’t make it before dark.”
“But we can—”
“It would be most improper to impose on these poor people, John. They’ve shared more than they can afford already. It’s time to go. Now.” He was very firm.
“But we can’t go without taking leave of Father Andronikos, and he’s in the church,” John protested.
“If you explain things to his wife, she will understand and tell him we have left. Tell her we must get back to Nicosia, or your father will have your hide.” Sir Galvin enunciated very precisely with a fake smile. “Now I’ll go tack up the horses, and you go tell Madame Priest we’re leaving.”
Fuming inwardly, John entered the little house, calling out as he entered, “Kireea?” (My lady).
He was answered by Eirini, who came toward him with her finger to her lips. “She’s napping,” Eirini told him in a whisper.
At last! They were alone together, and just a foot apart. John felt his throat close so tig
ht he couldn’t breathe. His pulse was racing. “Eirini!” he whispered.
She gazed up at him with wide, dark, expectant eyes.
John licked his lips. “Eirini. I love you!” He gasped out.
She went on tiptoe and pecked at his cheek with a little kiss in answer. Then, just as she was about to dart away, ashamed of her own audacity, John caught her, pulled her back into his arms, and held her for a moment of sheer ecstasy. “I have to go,” he murmured into her ear, holding her tighter still, “but I’ll be back. Trust me. I love you.”
Now she lifted her face to his, and he bent his own to place a kiss on her lips. He had never known anything like this. He didn’t want it to end. Not the embrace or the kiss or—
“John! I’m waiting for you!” Sir Galvin shouted from the yard.
“I have to go!” John whispered, pulling back. “I have to go, but I’ll be back. I love you!”
“I love you, too!” Eirini answered, glowing with the same excitement that had overwhelmed John.
“John! Do you want me to come in and get you?” Sir Galvin threatened.
John dropped a last, fleeting kiss on Eirini’s lips and fled out the door, almost tripping over a stool and wooden clogs just inside the entry.
Sir Galvin was already mounted, sitting with one hand on his hip and Troubadour’s reins in the other. Barry was panting at Troubadour’s heels. At the sight of John, Sir Galvin just shook his head. “It’s going to be damned uncomfortable riding in the state you’re in, but at least I can see you didn’t have time to spill it in the wrong place. Come on. Mount up.”
John obeyed, too dazed by all the sensations surging through him to resist. As Sir Galvin picked up a trot past the little church, John turned and looked back over his shoulder at the priest’s house. Had Eirini been in the doorway, he would have ridden back to her at once, willing to face any fate whatever just to hold her in his arms again, but she was not. John turned forward and reluctantly urged Troubadour to a trot to catch up with Sir Galvin.
“I’m not sure your father would approve,” Sir Galvin remarked as John fell in beside him, “but I’ve found that when I’m inflamed with passion for a woman I can’t have, it helps to comfort my body with a woman that I can. If you want, we can stop at a place I know in Limassol where the girls are clean, pretty, and totally lacking in virtue.”
John didn’t answer, but he nodded wordlessly. He had to learn more about this whole business of physical attraction to the opposite sex.
Chapter Seventeen
The Old Kingdom
Sidon,
June 1195
THE BIRTH AND CHRISTENING OF A son and heir is always a good excuse for a celebration, but the Baron of Sidon had more reason than most for a feast. He was sixty-six years old, and despite two previous marriages, this was the first time a live child had been born to him. In the old man’s eyes, to be blessed with a son so late in life was nothing short of a miracle. He knew the life of his infant son was fragile. He knew the infant might not live a month, a year, or a decade, much less more than a half-century as he had. But the baby had been born whole and healthy, and Reginald de Sidon was overwhelmed with joy and pride. He wanted to share his feelings with the whole world.
For his servants and the commoners of Sidon, he ordered the slaughter of two oxen and six sheep, all of which now roasted over open pits in the outer ward. Dozens of trestle tables lined with benches had been set up, and tents erected over them to shield the guests from the summer sun. In addition to the roasted meat, mounds of bread and casks of ale were dished out. A dancing bear, jugglers, fire-eaters, and acrobats were also on hand to entertain the crowd and ensure a festive mood.
In the great hall of the castle, Sidon’s tenants and retainers gathered around sideboards laden with mounds of roast pork under crusted fat, heaps of goat soaked in red wine and bay-leaf gravy, and mutton smothered in mint-flavored yogurt. There were loaves of wheat and barley bread, casseroles of carrots and celery baked under a layer of cheese, puddings of umbles spiced with cumin and nutmeg, marzipan cakes, candied fruits, and much more. Each empty platter was replaced with a fresh one, offering either more of the same or something new.
Guests came and went as they pleased. They made their way to the high table to offer their congratulations to the host before partaking of the feast. They chatted with acquaintances and friends at the lower tables. They wandered out to the ward to see the entertainment. Later in the day a tournament was planned, so many of the younger men were already checking on their horses and equipment.
Tournaments were not common in Outremer, and were nowhere near as popular as in France. Real warfare had been too prevalent for too much of the history of the Latin Kingdom in the Holy Land for anyone to feel a need for mock combat. The truce with the Saracens, however, was almost three years old, and youth was restless. Or, one could argue, the truce was due to expire in less than a year, and it was time to hone one’s combat skills again. Either way, the tournament had attracted the chivalry of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in large numbers.
Most of the barons of the High Court had assembled, and not a few of the bishops as well, although the King had sent regrets because Queen Isabella was still in her confinement after the birth of a third daughter, this one christened Alice. At the high table with Sidon were two of the Tiberius brothers, Ralph and Hugh. In addition, the Lord of Caesarea and his heir (both called Walter) had joined their host at the high table. The place of honor, however, had been given to Sidon’s father-in-law, the Lord of Caymont, Balian d’Ibelin.
Ibelin was twenty years younger than his son-in-law, which in the circumstances provoked a great deal of good-natured teasing. “You must feel ancient being a grandfather!” Reginald ribbed him.
“Being a grandfather is actually quite satisfying,” Ibelin countered; “it almost makes me feel like I’m founding a dynasty.” The others made dismissive gestures and not very polite noises, and were about to change the subject when Balian added, “What disturbs me is the idea of sleeping with a grandmother.”
The remark caught the others by surprise and harvested guffaws of laughter accordingly—until the Lord of Caesarea quipped, with a nod toward the door opening from the solar behind them, “Then again, when the grandmother looks like that . . . ”
Balian spun about with a guilty conscience and got hastily to his feet, bringing the other men at the high table with him. From Maria Zoë’s serene expression, however, he surmised she hadn’t heard his joke. Reginald was calling for another chair to be brought, as Ralph of Tiberius chivalrously vacated his own seat for the Dowager Queen.
“Is everything all right?” Reginald asked anxiously.
“Helvis seems to think she’s the first woman in the world to give birth to a son,” Maria Zoë answered with a pseudo-disgusted shake of her head. “Honestly,” she added, nodding to her husband as he silently offered to pour wine for her, “she practically floats when she walks around the room, and I’m worried the poor little thing will starve to death, because she can hardly let go of him long enough for the wet nurse to feed him. She wants him in her arms every second. I don’t know where she gets it. I was never that maternal.” She tossed Balian a smile that seemed to contain some private joke, because he laughed.
Then she turned back to the beaming father and declared, “You’re going to have trouble with her, Sidon. She now thinks that she can walk on water, that the sun and moon rise at her command, and I don’t know what else.”
Sidon and Ibelin both laughed at this, as Maria Zoë intended, but she recognized in their laughter a large portion of nervous relief. Sidon quite obviously doted on his pretty young bride, and it did not help that his first wife had died in childbed. It was only natural that he be both very concerned and very relieved that this birth had been comparatively easy and successful.
For Balian, on the other hand, Helvis was his firstborn child, conceived in sin, and still barely seventeen years old. Balian, Maria Zoë knew, had a partially guilty
conscience for marrying her to a man old enough to be her grandfather. At the time of the betrothal it had seemed like a blessing because they had lost all their lands to the Saracens, whereas Sidon had a promise of a fief from none other than Saladin himself. The situation had changed with the grant of Caymont, but by then it was too late to break the agreement with Sidon. Besides, Helvis herself had never expressed any dissatisfaction with the proposed marriage. On the contrary, she had very early realized she could get her own way in nearly everything from the besotted Sidon, and she visibly enjoyed her status of married woman and Lady of Sidon.
Inwardly Maria Zoë shook her head over a daughter who was so radically different from herself in almost every way. Helvis had always been a timid child, afraid of horses, and so pious there were times when Balian thought she might have a calling to the Church. Since her marriage she had become completely focused on her husband, her household, and now her baby. She took no interest in anything beyond her little circle. Maria Zoë found that incomprehensible, but she accepted that Helvis was happy in her narrow world.
The Bishop of Sidon, in full episcopal regalia, was making his way across the hall, trailed by a couple of fellow clerics. He mounted the steps to the high table and approached Sidon. “My lord, we are nearly ready for the christening. You can start assembling in the chapel, and have the godmother fetch the child.”
Sidon nodded, raised his voice, and announced the message to the larger crowd, while Maria Zoë excused herself to return for the baby. “What have you decided to name him, by the way?” she asked curiously.
“Oh, didn’t Helvis tell you?”
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